


Movin' Ahead

by sonshineandshowers



Series: Martin's Murder Playlist [2]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Comfort, Gen, Hallucinations, Mental Health Issues, Whump, grabbed by the hair, self-care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23436958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Malcolm goes hiking at Lake Minnewaska, but he can't get rid of an unwanted companion. Brushes of most characters throughout.Martin's Murder Playlist Series: I Got a Name.For Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt Grabbed by the Hair.
Series: Martin's Murder Playlist [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685980
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Movin' Ahead

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I Got a Name](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/576718) by Jim Croce (performed by). 



Malcolm walked on a trail around Lake Minnewaska, the gravel rough under his feet. Nearly a mile in so far, and the sun warmed his forehead, making him sweat and starting to give him some color. _Like the pine trees linin’ the windin’ road_ , he mostly stayed just off the path, climbing onto every large boulder he saw, standing up on top like he was king of the mountain.

 _I’ve got a name, I’ve got a name_ — bright as the sun he needed to pause to escape, putting on a fresh layer of sunscreen. _You’ll get spots, dear,_ his mother’s voice reminded him. He slicked it on, rubbing it in like Jackie did when he refused to put it on himself — he’d wanted to _burn_. That was a long time ago — he had a fresh face now that warranted some protection.

He walked into a clearing, seeing teases of glimmers off the lake further around the bend. _Like the singin’ bird and the croakin’ toad_ , he sunned himself in the grass, taking out a snack of sunflower seeds. He hoped Gil was doing okay watching Sunshine. “Whatever you need, kid,” he’d assured, but it was too much to ask for him to feed and play with the bird every day.

“It’s two days, kid.” He’d laughed at him.

It was still too much.

He couldn't stay Bright all the time. _I’ve got a name, and I carry it with me like my daddy did_ — his damn father had branded him for life. He couldn't go anywhere without him following.

“That’s right, my boy,” Dr. Whitly purred over his shoulder, a snake in the grass behind him.

Malcolm jumped up, his breath catching in his throat. He put the half-finished bag back into his pack and brushed off his pants. He clasped his hands together to stop the shaking and kept walking, regulating his breathing with his footsteps.

“You always loved a day in the woods,” Dr. Whitly ran behind him. “Disc golf? Horseback riding? Oh no, that’s your sister. How’s she doing, by the way?”

“Shut up,” Malcolm demanded, and a couple walking in the opposite direction looked at him like he was talking to them. He held up his fingers in a phone symbol in return and they parted ways.

Malcolm kept walking, one-step, two-step, Bright-step, Whitly-step, Whitly-step, Bright-step, until neither of them were discernible. “Your father’s son,” Dr. Whitly taunted.

If Malcolm didn’t turn to the right, Dr. Whitly almost escaped his field of vision. Thankfully, the lake was on the left. The huge expanse beckoned him to the edge with shimmering hope. He tore his shoes off, rolled down his socks, set both of them on top of his pack, and slid his feet into the water, letting it lap into his soles.

He cuffed his pants up to his knees and stretched out his legs, letting the water help him cool down. _I’m living the dream that he kept hid_ — he smiled in the breeze, grateful that he had the luxury of spending a day on a hike, in the sun, sopping up everything Mother Nature offered him. Everything he couldn’t get at home. The nurturing he’d had to seek in collecting a family when he couldn’t rely solely on his own. But as one big hodgepodge of assembled pieces, they all fit.

Dr. Whitly was still in a cage, abandoned, all edges — a piece who wouldn’t ever fit with the rest. He had the nightmare of a four-walled cell, Bright had the dream.

Dreams were worth fighting for.

Malcolm plunged into the water, his wireless earbuds slipping out of his ears. His face smacked into the bottom, silt invading his mouth and inhaling water into his lungs. A hand latched a fierce grip in his hair, tugging and shaking, trying to fill him with enough debris to kill him. _Help, Dad_ —

His lungs burned until it lit his instinct to fight back, wildly swinging his elbows, connecting with the body behind him. The blows managed to gain him sufficient leverage to break his head through the water. He hacked and spit out the detritus, looking for his attacker.

Dr. Whitly threw a wild hammerfist at Malcolm’s face that he instinctually blocked with his forearm. Shocked, he countered with a body hook, trying to stun, yet not use damaging force. “Lightweight,” Dr. Whitly seethed, goading him on.

Malcolm kept spitting, the sandy residue uncomfortably gritty on his tongue. Sent a push knee, tackling the man to the ground and rolling him so he was face down, his arm pulled tight across his back. Straddled him and held him in a mounted restraint, restricting his movements.

“I need help!” Malcolm shouted, his voice trashed. He coughed several more times, trying to rid the horrid irritation from his nose and throat.

Finally looking up, folks from the trail had already started to gather even without his shout. “Called the police,” one responded.

No one approached him to help. “My father attacked me,” he explained, his breaths heaving his chest.

Dr. Whitly kept struggling to get up, his snarl echoing in Malcolm’s ears. Malcolm looked below him, finding a tattered t-shirt. Looked further up to straight, peppered hair. Felt under his legs a slight frame. Had they stopped feeding him in Claremont? Had he gone on a hunger strike? Did they withhold fresh clothing, yet somehow splurge on hair care?

It wasn’t him. _It wasn’t him_. Malcolm was waiting on park police to get there, and it wasn’t his hallucination who had attacked him. Surely he should’ve felt more relieved.

A warm breath hit the moisture on Malcolm’s neck and he shivered. “ _Well done_ ,” Dr. Whitly approved.

Malcolm couldn’t move. Couldn’t keep walking away, Dr. Whitly nagging at his heels. Couldn’t scream. Could only sit and wait for backup — not his strong suit. The sun beamed the water on his clothing until it boiled, and he cooked inside. Nearly ran when he transitioned custody to an officer.

The park police took the man away without incident. Asked if Malcolm was missing anything from his pack beside him. Explained that the park had seen a few muggings in the past few weeks, and his attacker fit the description. Offered him a fast path back, but he refused, deciding to keep trudging forward on his own, wet clothes and all.

His wireless earbuds damaged, he played music directly from his phone that stayed sheltered in his pack. _Like the fool I am and I’ll always be_ , he kept thinking he could be alone on his walk, but he’d look right, and there was Dr. Whitly, offering input on the activity. “Yellow jacket. Bunchberry,” he pointed to nature around them, popping a berry into his mouth. “Have a taste.”

Not poisonous, but certainly not pleasant. _I’ve got a dream, I’ve got a dream_ of being free. Free of the long surviving aftertaste of Dr. Whitly’s indiscretions. _Indiscretion?_ , his mother voiced in shock. _You mean murder. Call a spade a spade, dear._

 _They can change their minds but they can’t change me_ was advice he’d never been able to subscribe to. Dr. Whitly hadn’t managed to kill him, but he, all the voices who said Malcolm was his father’s son, all the people who assumed Malcolm would kill too — they all did irreparable damage he couldn’t hide in the summer sun. He shook his arms out, trying to pull himself out of his head and back to the outdoors.

 _I’ve got a dream, I’ve got a dream_ — he looked across the sky, discerning which clouds appeared most like his friends. Puffy muscles fought to hold the others back — Jay Tee. _Ooo, nice one,_ he told himself.

A smaller cloud had darker tinges to the edges. Bumped into the others, then pulled back again — Dani.

A wispy cloud streaked along, barreled straight into another, and got consumed — Edrisa.

The cloud that temporarily provided him respite from the sun seemed to have been following him for quite some time — Gil.

The clouds turned to knives when the voice beside him got in close and breathed heavily into his ear, “They’re not your friends. I am.”

The monster wouldn’t win. Malcolm cinched his pack tighter and started running, blowing by everything around him, only taking in the wind whipping past his face. He sprinted until he wheezed and slowed back to a walk, trying to catch his breath. He tugged at his hair, pulling fiercer than needed to ground himself and clear the wet strands from his face. He rocked his fingers’ firm grip against his head, punishing himself.

Malcolm cracked a sardonic laugh that the tiny pack and small amount of exercise was too heavy for his body to withstand. _Someone tried to drown you_ , he reminded himself, but it felt like a copout.

 _It’s not, kid_ , Gil assured him. Malcolm paused and looked at the dirt, trying to believe him, trying to wrestle the many truths Gil had been there for with the one that still rattled in his head. _I know I could share it if you want me to_ , but Gil would worry. Strongly suggest he go see a doctor he didn’t want to. Look at him in dismay when he refused. If _anything_ would help, he would try. But nothing did. _Something will_ , Gil told the shaking head of a ten-year-old boy.

“ _If you’re goin’ my way, I’ll go with you,_ “ another solo hiker offered. He must have been a sight in his mixed levels of drenched clothes, raggedy hair, and when he looked closer at his hands, _dirt_. Most everyone had kept to themself — he must have seemed pretty bad off if this guy was reaching out to him now.

But he wanted solace. A place where no one would ask questions, isolated in the woods miles out from the city. Standing at a fork of half a mile back with the man or over two miles back on his own, he chose solitude, dipping his head in thanks and branching off.

 _Movin’ ahead so life_ wouldn’t pass him by.

On the way to Beacon Hill, an offshoot of the circular Lake Minnewaska trail, he cut the endless loop of his father’s soundtrack and called Gil. “There’s something I’d like to talk about.”

* * *

_fin_


End file.
